Volume Iii Part 19 (1/2)

MY DEAR SIR,

I find that if I wait to write you a long letter (which has been the cause of my procrastination in fulfilling my part of our agreement), I am likely to wait some time longer. And as I am very anxious to hear from you; not the less so, because if I hear of you through my brother, who usually sees you once a week in my absence; I take pen in hand and stop a messenger who is going to Genoa. For my main object being to qualify myself for the receipt of a letter from you, I don't see why a ten-line qualification is not as good as one of a hundred lines.

You told me it was possible that you and Mrs. Tagart might wander into these lat.i.tudes in the autumn. I wish you would carry out that infant intention to the utmost. It would afford us the truest delight and pleasure to receive you. If you come in October, you will find us in the Palazzo Peschiere, in Genoa, which is surrounded by a delicious garden, and is a most charming habitation in all respects. If you come in September, you will find us less splendidly lodged, but on the margin of the sea, and in the midst of vineyards. The climate is delightful even now; the heat being not at all oppressive, except in the actual city, which is what the Americans would call considerable fiery, in the middle of the day. But the sea-breezes out here are refres.h.i.+ng and cool every day, and the bathing in the early morning is something more agreeable than you can easily imagine. The orange trees of the Peschiere shall give you their most fragrant salutations if you come to us at that time, and we have a dozen spare beds in that house that I know of; to say nothing of some vast chambers here and there with ancient iron chests in them, where Mrs. Tagart might enact Ginevra to perfection, and never be found out. To prevent which, I will engage to watch her closely, if she will only come and see us.

The flies are incredibly numerous just now. The unsightly blot a little higher up was occasioned by a very fine one who fell into the inkstand, and came out, unexpectedly, on the nib of my pen. We are all quite well, thank Heaven, and had a very interesting journey here, of which, as well as of this place, I will not write a word, lest I should take the edge off those agreeable conversations with which we will beguile our walks.

Pray tell me about the presentation of the plate, and whether ---- was very slow, or trotted at all, and if so, when. He is an excellent creature, and I respect him very much, so I don't mind smiling when I think of him as he appeared when addressing you and pointing to the plate, with his head a little on one side, and one of his eyes turned up languidly.

Also let me know exactly how you are travelling, and when, and all about it; that I may meet you with open arms on the threshold of the city, if happily you bend your steps this way. You had better address me, ”Poste Restante, Genoa,” as the Albaro postman gets drunk, and when he has lost letters, and is sober, sheds tears--which is affecting, but hardly satisfactory.

Kate and her sister send their best regards to yourself, and Mrs. and Miss Tagart, and all your family. I heartily join them in all kind remembrances and good wishes. As the messenger has just looked in at the door, and shedding on me a balmy gale of onions, has protested against being detained any longer, I will only say (which is not at all necessary) that I am ever,

Faithfully yours.

P.S.--There is a little to see here, in the church way, I a.s.sure you.

[Sidenote: Mr. Clarkson Stanfield.]

ALBARO, _Sat.u.r.day Night, August 24th, 1844._

MY DEAR STANFIELD,

I love you so truly, and have such pride and joy of heart in your friends.h.i.+p, that I don't know how to begin writing to you. When I think how you are walking up and down London in that portly surtout, and can't receive proposals from d.i.c.k to go to the theatre, I fall into a state between laughing and crying, and want some friendly back to smite.

”Je-im!” ”Aye, aye, your honour,” is in my ears every time I walk upon the sea-sh.o.r.e here; and the number of expeditions I make into Cornwall in my sleep, the springs of Flys I break, the songs I sing, and the bowls of punch I drink, would soften a heart of stone.

We have had weather here, since five o'clock this morning, after your own heart. Suppose yourself the Admiral in ”Black-eyed Susan” after the acquittal of William, and when it was possible to be on friendly terms with him. I am T. P.[4] My trousers are very full at the ankles, my black neckerchief is tied in the regular style, the name of my s.h.i.+p is painted round my glazed hat, I have a red waistcoat on, and the seams of my blue jacket are ”paid”--permit me to dig you in the ribs when I make use of this nautical expression--with white. In my hand I hold the very box connected with the story of Sandomingerbilly. I lift up my eyebrows as far as I can (on the T. P. model), take a quid from the box, screw the lid on again (chewing at the same time, and looking pleasantly at the pit), brush it with my right elbow, take up my right leg, sc.r.a.pe my right foot on the ground, hitch up my trousers, and in reply to a question of yours, namely, ”Indeed, what weather, William?” I deliver myself as follows:

Lord love your honour! Weather! Such weather as would set all hands to the pumps aboard one of your fresh-water c.o.c.kboats, and set the purser to his wits' ends to stow away, for the use of the s.h.i.+p's company, the casks and casks full of blue water as would come powering in over the gunnel! The dirtiest night, your honour, as ever you see 'atween Spithead at gun-fire and the Bay of Biscay! The wind sou'-west, and your house dead in the wind's eye; the breakers running up high upon the rocky beads, the light'us no more looking through the fog than Davy Jones's sa.r.s.er eye through the blue sky of heaven in a calm, or the blue toplights of your honour's lady cast down in a modest overhauling of her catheads: avast! (_whistling_) my dear eyes; here am I a-goin' head on to the breakers (_bowing_).

_Admiral_ (_smiling_). No, William! I admire plain speaking, as you know, and so does old England, William, and old England's Queen. But you were saying----

_William._ Aye, aye, your honour (_scratching his head_). I've lost my reckoning. Damme!--I ast pardon--but won't your honour throw a hencoop or any old end of towline to a man as is overboard?

_Admiral_ (_smiling still_). You were saying, William, that the wind----

_William_ (_again c.o.c.king his leg, and slapping the thighs very hard_). Avast heaving, your honour! I see your honour's signal fluttering in the breeze, without a gla.s.s. As I was a-saying, your honour, the wind was blowin'

from the sou'-west, due sou'-west, your honour, not a pint to larboard nor a pint to starboard; the clouds a-gatherin' in the distance for all the world like Beachy Head in a fog, the sea a-rowling in, in heaps of foam, and making higher than the mainyard arm, the craft a-scuddin' by all taught and under storms'ils for the harbour; not a blessed star a-twinklin'

out aloft--aloft, your honour, in the little cherubs' native country--and the spray is flying like the white foam from the Jolly's lips when Poll of Portsea took him for a tailor! (_laughs._)

_Admiral_ (_laughing also_). You have described it well, William, and I thank you. But who are these?

_Enter Supers in calico jackets to look like cloth, some in brown holland petticoat-trousers and big boots, all with very large buckles.

Last Super rolls on a cask, and pretends to keep it. Other Supers apply their mugs to the bunghole and drink, previously holding them upside down._

_William_ (_after shaking hands with everybody_). Who are these, your honour!

Messmates as staunch and true as ever broke biscuit. Ain't you, my lads?

_All._ Aye, aye, William. That we are! that we are!